


Riddles, Politics and Treacle Tarts

by DarkandChaotic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient Magicks, Bottom Harry Potter, Courting Rituals, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, International Confederation of Wizards (Harry Potter), International Relations, M/M, Mpreg, Occasionally Top Harry Potter, Political Alliances, Politics, The Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter) is Terrible, Tom falls for Harry, Top Tom Riddle, Top Voldemort (Harry Potter), Wizengamot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkandChaotic/pseuds/DarkandChaotic
Summary: Harry's the last surviving member of the Potter and the Black wizarding families. He also finds out he has political power as the only person capable of taking the Potter and Black seats within the Wizengamot. Empowered by his desire to have his late Godfather's memory honoured in some way, Harry decides to join Wizarding Britain's political scene...just in time for Voldemort's own rise to political power... and the international wizarding community rapidly going to the dogs. What's a young lord to do? Maybe Harry'd think on that while eating his treacle tart.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle/Voldemort
Comments: 33
Kudos: 424





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

It was strange and surreal. Sirius was gone. And it was as if the whole world just moved on without him and nobody cared. Except for Harry. And it hurt so much, just thinking about it. Sometimes, Harry wondered if he truly cared about Sirius, or was it the idea of what Sirius could be to him that he missed so much. The idea of having real family. Either way, Harry hurt. And then, one horrible day in early July, that letter came.

Harry held the parchment in his shaking hands as he looked at the imposing closed door before him. He was at Gringotts, all by himself. He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about this. He felt that he had to do it on his own, to do something privately that validated Sirius’ existence somehow. So here he was. He, Harry James Potter-Black, Boy-Who-Lived, and, apparently, blood-adopted son of Sirius Orion Black, sole heir to the many Black fortunes and estates, and now Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

Somewhere, in whatever remote and obscure location she was buried at, Walburga Black was spinning madly in her grave.

“Ripgut can see you now, Lord Potter-Black.” 

Harry looked up- looked down at the goblin before him and stared for a bit. He was Lord Potter-Black now. Well. It was different. It was scary, unknown. But it was also exciting. To have something of Sirius’ that meant he would not be forgotten. Something that he would proudly carry till the rest of his life. 

He gave the goblin a tight smile and a nod, before getting up and entering the imposing office.

Ripgut had been the Blacks’ accountant, or that was as close as Harry could put it that made sense to him. In essence, Ripgut was so much more and the goblin made sure to put that particular fact into Harry’s mind before they got on with business.

“Lord Potter-Black. Your esteemed Lord Father, the late Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, Lord Sirius Orion Black, has left you everything to his name, including his seat on the Wizengamot. Now, due to his status as a criminal among your kind, Lord Black had been unable to participate in the Wizengamot’s proceedings. You, however, Lord Potter-Black, you are capable of filling that unfortunate and unforgivable gap. Quite trying times are ahead of us both, Lord Potter-Black. You are now the Head of a Family that consists of a single member- you. I’d suggest you begin making alliances and connections as soon as possible. Someone in your delicate situation bears to lose a lot more than their life, if I may so tell you, Lord Potter-Black. After all, if such power lands in the hands of the less savory, it would be… tragic for your entire Wizarding community here on the Isles. Do I make myself clear, Lord Potter-Black, or is this overwhelmed and stupefied expression on your face your default state of being?” 

Harry stared. And stared. And stared. It was going to be a long day.

Three hours later found Harry at Madam Malkin’s shopping for what Ripgut called “the most expensive and stylish official looking clothes you can find. You must look better than what you look now. If even a shoelace is out of place, the sharks of the Wizengamot would ridicule you for years to come.” 

—-

Around 9 pm an irate Aunt Petunia found her nephew looking like somebody had kissed him and then slapped him with a 4 day old fish that had been left out to dry in the sun. In summer. Needless to say, the woman didn’t even bother berating him, as she was too tired with dealing with him and his kind on a daily basis. 

Send us a letter if you see him, they had said. Not even if her life depended on it!

Three days later and Harry figured he had a huge problem on his hands. Or, rather, on his head. Ever since he was a small child, his hair had been the topic of many of Aunt Petunia’s rages. It does not set. It does not take to being cut. And, what was worse, it did not care that there was such a thing as gravity. Harry had tried cutting it himself, but it only made him look worse. Luckily, his magical hair grew back to that same bird’s nest overnight and now he was back at square one. Well, time to suck up his dignity and ask the one person in the household that has any idea about what looks proper - Aunt Petunia.

“And why exactly do I have to bother with you and your freaky hair, boy?”

“Uhm.” Harry looked down at his feet and shuffled for a bit, very uncomfortable by his aunt’s stare. He’d never been comfortable with attention, really. Sometimes he just wished he could breeze by people without them bothering him. After last year that feeling had intensified ten fold.

“Well? For crying out loud boy, if you expect to get anything in life you have to speak up. And look at me when I talk to you! It’s like you’ve never heard of manners! Straighten those shoulders and look at me in the eyes! Stop shuffling on your feet like a small child! There! At least I know you can listen and follow instructions. So, what do you want? And speak clearly!” 

“I need to be present for an official meeting and my hair is-”

“A bird’s nest. Yes, I am well aware of that. What do you want me to do? Unlike your unnatural kind, I can’t pull miracles out of my pockets left, right and center.” 

“ Can anything be done at all, Aunt Petunia?” 

She harrumphed and pursed her already thin lips to become an even thinner line.

“How important is this… official meeting of yours?” 

Harry contemplated for a few moments how to answer her. When he could not find the right words to appease her question, he ran upstairs and brought his official invitation to take part in the Wizengamot session this Friday. That was three days from today.

“You have a parliament? And they want  _ you _ of all people to- A child! A child that cannot even look me in the eye when I speak to- Boy, eyes on me when I talk to you!”

“Y-yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“I have some idea what can be done. And do not for one second think I am doing this for you! You will be present in front of an entire assembly of gentlemen, freakish and unnatural as they are, and you will not embarrass my family with your...whatever you do on a daily basis.” 

“Mrs. Polkiss goes to this hairdresser in London. She has five hairs on a good day and that woman seems to do miracles with Mrs. Polkiss. We are having tea this afternoon and when I return, I expect the house and garden to be spotless. Do you understand me, boy?”

“ Yes, Aunt Petunia! Perfectly clear! Thank you, Aunt Petunia!” 

The woman rolled her eyes at her nephew. Harry, thank Merlin, did not have much to clean up as the house was always in a constant state of supreme cleanliness. The garden patch was a whole other topic altogether. So Harry did what he did best, he bit the inside of his cheeks so he doesn’t say something uncouth and he prepared himself for a few hours of grueling work in the sun. 

Aunt Petunia returned to find her home in a satisfactory enough state and with her nephew looking positively exhausted. She yelled at him for a good five minutes about the importance of personal hygiene and to pray she doesn’t find a single muddy footprints in the house or so help her.

Wednesday found Harry in London with his aunt and cousin. The hairdresser’s salon he had been taken to looked extremely fancy and expensive. All the more reason for him to feel uncomfortable and extremely awkward with his current surroundings. His hairdresser was a tall, lean woman with a platinum dyed hair held in a tight bun much like Professor McGonagall.

“Look at you, sweetie! Who do I have to kill to have hair like yours! It’s really thick and healthy! And all over the place! So, what’s it gonna be, honey?” 

“Uhm, something official looking, please?”

“You are so cute! Such a treat! Sandra over there usually gets the cute shy ones, but I guess it’s my lucky day today!” she smiled and winked at him playfully and Harry felt his face heating up. His blush reached his ears and neck.

Jane, his hairdresser, quickly figured out exactly what to do with this bashful boy’s hair. She spent a moderate amount of time working her fingers into his scalp, massaging and spreading whatever serum or concoction she had put on his head. Honestly, harry had very little idea how much time had passed because he fell asleep some 5 minutes after she began the treatment, the noises from the other hairdressers be damned. It was like he was a small black kitten being showered with pets and rubs, as Jane oh so smugly put it. 

In all honesty, he did not think his hair looked that different from before but now it was softer, there was some sort of order to the usually completely chaotic bird’s nest he had on top of his head and… dare he say it? Harry felt handsome.

—-

The next time Harry went to Diagon Alley, it was early Thursday morning. All of his clothes had been done by then and the lady of the store, Madam Malkin herself, had him try them on in case anything needed final adjustments.

“Mr. Potter. I must say the green robes look simply gorgeous on you. Now if only we could do something about those horrible glasses of yours. Can you take them off for a second, my dear? I would like to see how you look without them.” 

Harry smiled at the old witch and quickly removed his glasses. The world became a blur but Madam Malkin was close enough for him to see her smile like grandmothers smile at their children when they had done something right.

“Truly, Mr. Potter, you will be a heartbreaker. No! You are a heartbreaker! Say, do you have a girlfriend? No? A boyfriend maybe? That shy, bashful smile of yours will be the cause of murder one day! Oh, silly me, I really run my mouth sometimes, don’t I? Such trying times, what with You-Know-Who being back. But you have been saying this for such a long time. And the Ministry never apologized either!” 

“It’s fine, Madam Malkin. I, er, don’t subscribe to the Daily Prophet, so if I don’t read the articles, they don’t offend me.”

“Even so, Mr. Potter. A man must always protect his reputation. What if one of your friends were targeted? Would you sit idly and do nothing? I highly doubt a Gryffindor like you would leave such things as they are.” 

“You are right, Madam Malkin. I won’t. I just don’t like to cause trouble. It finds me on its own, you see.”

“Oh, you sweet, sweet boy! You really should try and apply yourself more! And you still have the strength within to keep on smiling like this. I always knew you were good, Mr. Potter. For all these years you have visited me for your school robes, never once did you strike me as a lying child. There has always been this thing about you, Mr. Potter. An innate nobility if you will.” Madam Malkin sighed and shook her head at him, looking wistful.

“You could become great many things, Mr. Potter. I am sure of it. And, if what my niece says about you, and no, Mr. Potter, I will not tell you who she is, then I know for certain you have honor and courage in spades. And a tremendous sense of justice. In these dark times, what with the Dark Lord back, you give us little people hope. Just be as you are, Mr. Potter. I will ask nothing more of you!” 

After such poetic and heartfelt declarations, Harry could not help himself but blush and stare at his shoes. He wondered where had people like her been when he needed them the most last year? When people called him a liar and a lunatic. It was a bittersweet feeling mixed in with something warm and hopeful. He left Madam Malkin’s with more questions in his heart and mind than he had before. And in all of this, he could not find it in himself to write to Ron or Hermione. Or the order. And… and there was Dumbledore, too! He was still angry at the man. He was still angry at himself. 

Hell. This whole Wizengamot thing was almost as overwhelming as the Prophecy had been. He felt helpless. But he also felt an ever so tiny sliver of hope within him that maybe, just the barest bit of maybe, he could be able to do something. He wasn’t just Harry. He wasn’t just the Boy-Who-Lived. He was Lord Potter-Black now. A lord patriarch of two practically dead pureblood family lines. He, a half-blood raised by muggles!

Friday came surprisingly fast for Harry. He wore his best clothes. Merlin! Even Aunt Petunia had helped him out with that. He could hardly associate the young man in the mirror with himself, even if he still looked like himself. Well. His hair was a stylish hurricane, his robes were crips and sharp, of the blackest, finest linen-cotton blend that Madam Malkin had access too and… he felt good about himself. He held his shoulders straight. He looked his mirror self in the eyes, kept his breathing even. 

He was Lord Harry James Potter-Black. He was Lord Patriarch of House Potter and House Black. He bore the legacy of two of the greatest wizarding families in Britain.

“Here goes nothing.” he said quietly to himself.

—-

Entering the Ministry had been just as easy as it had been a few months ago. A cold, numb feeling swept through him as he watched the now pristine halls, the cracks, the debris and the damage of the battle that was fought was only something his mind’s eye could see. As he passed by, the sounds of Bellatrix’s mad laughter haunted his ears, now merely an echo of a memory compared to the nightmares he had in the first few weeks. The Ministry’s halls left him quiet, somber and ever so slightly listless.

Harry looked around himself. The Session was to start in one hour. And he was all on his own in here. People were walking past him and everyone seemed to be in some sort of hurry. There was a tenseness in the air, a certain strain in everybody’s eyes. There was a feverishness that he could not solely explain with Voldemort. True, they, the Ministry, had finally started to move against the Dark Lord, but what was going on before him felt… panicky.

It was as if something had happened and he had no idea why. For the first time ever he bemoaned his decision to not subscribe to the Daily Prophet. Mayhap then he’d been aware of what was going on.

Harry walked forward slowly, almost leisurely but with a false purpose to his movements. He still had no idea where to go, but at least this way he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. It was a little trick he learned early on in life, back when he still went to muggle school. It had been a surprisingly effective tactic to mingle in large crowds in order to avoid Dudley’s gang.

Maybe he looked too refined compared to his usual self. Maybe his little trick kept people from taking notice. Maybe whatever was going on had been that much trouble that anything and everything else was to take second place and below.

“...those muggleborn fools!”

“The ICW have lost their…”

“...is Dumbledore doing with all of…”

“Are they out of their minds to accept that proposal!”

“That’s what we get for getting Dumbledore sacked from the ICW.”

“But wasn’t he all for muggleborn rights?”

Such snippets were caught by Harry’s ears as he passed people by. What had muggleborns done? What did Dumbledore have to do with all of this? Just what in Merlin’s name was going on? He needed to find out.

But first, he needed to find the Wizengamot courtroom.

For that, Harry followed the most fancily dressed official looking wizard he saw, still clearly remembering Ripgut’s words about the Wizengamot dress code. He had no idea who he had been following for the past 20 minutes. But it got the job done. Eventually. Somehow.

With Gryffindoor steel in his back, his heart in his throat and his wand in his brand new dragon leather holder attached to his wrist, Lord Potter-Black opened the doors leading to the grand chamber of the Wizengamot, ready to make history.

—-

“May Lord Harry James Potter-Black please step forward.” 

His heart was thumping in his ears, and he felt a bit faint with nerves. But he still held his head high and his back and shoulders straight. He kept his stride at a slightly slower than his usual pace, opting for safety more so than the risk of stumbling down these finely carpeted stairs and making a fool of himself on the first day. Harry still couldn’t believe he was doing this on his own. 

“I, Harry James Potter-Black, Lord Patriarch of the Noble House of Potter, Lord Patriarch of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, present myself to the Members of the Wizengamot to lay claim to the seats of Houses Potter and Black.” 

Silence reigned. Then murmurs exploded. Seeing as nobody was telling him to do anything, or not to do anything, Harry took his leave from the podium and walked back to his seat in the Potter cubicle, again with that same measured stride he had used on the way down. 

Murmurs grew into fervent talking.

“Order!” a wizard at the centermost seat yelled, sparks flying from his outstretched wand. Harry did not know who he was, but he was pretty certain the last time he had seen such a seat, it had been occupied by Fudge. Where was Fudge, by the way?

It took a few more powerful bursts of wand lights to settle the members of the Wizengamot. Was his presence here truly that strange? Was it a problem? He really could’ve used Hermione in here. Or Mr. Weasly. He would’ve known what to do. Well, it was too late for that now and Harry blamed his inherent Gryffindor impulsiveness.

The Potter cubicle seemed freshly cleaned and kept in proper shape, despite not having seen use in well over 18 years, if the ledger before him was saying the truth. The tapestry was red and gold, and a dark wood accentuated everything, from the floor, to the furniture, to the ceiling and fence decorative bits. He wasn’t big on understanding the qualities and colors of wood, but he fancied the wood to be mahogany.

“ May Lord Marvolo Gaunt please step forward!” 

Marvolo? Harry was taken from his musings by a familiar sounding name. 

“No way!” he exclaimed quietly to himself as he dragged his chair forward and leaned himself a bit as well, to see what was going on better. There was absolutely no way Voldemort was doing this.

No. He was doing this. He was doing this so well, as if nobody knew where the name Marvolo came from (and Harry realized they in all probability really didn’t). What were the chances the two of them would be doing the same thing, on the same day, really?

What Harry really should’ve been asking himself right now, however, was: _What were the chances of him leaving the Ministry alive?_

Lord Voldemort, under the guise of this Lord Marvolo Gaunt, began to speak.

“I, Lord Marvolo Gaunt, Lord Patriarch of the Noble House of Gaunt, Heir of Slytherin, present myself to the Members of the Wizengamot to lay claim to the seats of Houses Gaunt and Slytherin.” 

As he stepped down, the young man turned his calm gaze straight towards Harry. He seemed exactly like he remembered him, that day in the Chamber of Secrets. Only older. With wider shoulders, a bit more meat on him, like his Uncle Vernon would’ve said. There was a certain air of superiority and power about him that sent shivers down Harry’s spine.

That dark chestnut hair of his was perfect as always, with that curled lock of hair falling over one side of his forehead. His robes were impeccable as well, not that Harry had much experience judging people’s robes and fashions. The man down there, the man he just shared a second of intense eye contact. That was Lord Voldemort. And that man, that incredibly handsome and stylish man that made Harry feel like an inadequate fool for even being here… That man, Lord Marvolo Gaunt, made everyone gobble up that lie he had turned himself into straight from the palm of his hands.

What the hell had Harry gotten himself into?


	2. Tarts and Political Arts - Truly, a Riddle!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry freaks out but then gets to eat some Treacle Tart. Voldemort doesn't freak out, doesn't eat Treacle Tart, but is really far more content on figuring things out. It will take a while, at any rate. The stage has been set. The die has been cast. Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the Chamber of Secrets discord group and Remaya in particular, who kept me company while writing this chapter. This Political Tomarry is dedicated to all of you :)

He was alive. For now. Harry still couldn't understand how he managed to leave the ministry without being slaughtered on the spot by the Dark Lord or his minions. He went back to Privet Drive, the whole experience feeling so surreal he had to pinch himself twice to check if he was dreaming or something.

Aunt Petunia had looked at him pensively, with pursed lips, but hadn't said anything. Uncle Vernon was watching the telly and did not pay him any attention. Dudley was out with friends. Perhaps this was a bit of a blessing. He needed time alone to set his thoughts straight.

What the hell had he been thinking!? What, in Merlin's name, had him think that joining the Wizengamot was a good idea!? Hermione was going to kill him. Ron would pat him on the back, offering his very Ron brand of support, but otherwise, be just as bewildered as he.

And Dumbledore... no. Screw Dumbledore. He had his chance! Harry was still very much cross with him. He did not want to deal with him anytime soon. But... speaking of Dumbledore, where had he been? Harry had always been under the impression that Dumbledore was a very important wizard and, now that Wizarding Britain didn't hate him anymore, he thought he'd be seeing him in the Wizengamot.

Harry had counted on that, actually. Just the thought of staring down at him, out of spite of all things, had been one of Harry's main motivations for this whole escapade. One must never underestimate how far a teenager was willing to go just out of spite. In retrospect, it was a silly fancy of his. He could practically hear Hermione tutting disapprovingly in the back of his mind.

Apart from getting to the Wizengamot session on time, nothing else had really gone according to plan. Dumbledore wasn't there but Voldemort, of all people, was. On top of that, they'd spent five hours doing what to Harry pretty much amounted to nothing. As he had been leaving the Ministry, he had overheard a few wizards talking and they had said this was a relatively short session. The hell were they doing in there!?

He had imagined important wizards and witches having passionate speeches about one topic or the other. Something akin to what Uncle Vernon watched on the telly, but, instead of those muggle politicians, Harry imagined many Hermiones in variously coloured robes and with pointy hats arguing with each other in a constructive manner (does Hermione argue in any other way?) and solving the problems of the country and people.

Reality had been so far away from that fantasy of his that he felt compelled to feel at least a tiny bit embarrassed. Yet, still, somehow, Harry felt that going to the Wizengamot, as crazy as it felt, was the right thing to do. Sirius had spent over a decade in wizarding prison, rotting away, an innocent man behind bars. A brilliant man full of many bright and innovative ideas, of crazy notions and fantastic thoughts that had brightened Harry's stay at Grimmauld Place.

Sirius, despite everything that had happened in his life, had still remained a true visionary among wizarding kind, the likes of which Harry doubted would be seen anytime soon. The thought of his late Godfather hurt him deeply. Harry still had vivid dreams of that moment he slipped through the veil, to not show up on the other side of that cursed arch. His dreams ripped him asunder between a cold chilling terror that would spread in through his blood and hot boiling, churning grief that constricted his chest and throat in a painful, vice grip.

This was nothing like Cedric's death. Cedric haunted him with guilt. Sirius ravaged him with loss, loneliness and heartache. Despite how little they had actually seen of each other, there had always been that connection between them that made Harry feel like he finally had family, that he had finally been acknowledged by someone.

Now Sirius was gone. It was his fault and Harry felt that the only way to make things right was to take a more active stance in Wizarding Britain. He'd do it for Sirius.

Sirius had never been much about politics. He was just not that type of person. But he had many ideas and thoughts that Harry could not help but heartily agree with him. Sirius also had this charisma and presence of character about him that commanded respect and attention, something Harry had always wondered how it had come to being, seeing as even Harry, who was hardly an expert on such things, could easily see that there were more than a few screws loose in his Godfather's mind.

It's a Black thing, Mrs Weasley had commented once in passing, never really elaborating what she meant. It was again one of those things that were inherent to those born and raised in this magical society. When he had asked Ron about it, he had shrugged. Blacks were ancient and powerful, he had said, and they don't let anyone forget it. It made sense, Harry had mused.

It made sense that they'd show people where they come from. One does not call their house Most Ancient for no reason. In fact, Hermione had commented that the House of Black was probably THE Most Ancient bloodline in wizarding Britain. The Blacks had records dating back to the Roman Empire. Or, if Sirius' mom's portrait could be believed, dating back to the age of Alexander the Great himself.

And now Harry, as Heir to this Most Ancient Legacy, had to make House Black great again. Harry cringed at his own thought for some reason. He shrugged off the foreboding feeling and focused on what was important – he still had no idea what he was doing. He did, however, know that he had to start somewhere and that he had to build a case – no, what would Hermione call it? A follower base? It felt a bit dirty. Kind of what Voldemort must've done in the early years before the first war. 

Can he really get solid support in the Wizengamot now that Voldemort was supposedly out in the open? It felt like a bad joke, even to himself. Voldemort was strutting his perfectly styled curly dark brown hair all over the Wizengamot, probably making nice with the big shots with them being none the wiser. And what did Harry do? He ran away at the first opportunity, his proverbial tail between his legs.

A true Gryffindor, no doubt about it! 

It left a bad taste in Harry's mouth. He pursed his lips and threw himself on his bed, shoving the pillow onto his face, feeling far more frustrated than he felt he had to be. He let the pillow fall to his side and took a deep breath and sighed heavily. 

Wait. 

What was that smell?

Harry took a deep breath again, sniffed the air.

He sat up as fast as the lightning, his head turning quickly towards the open door of his room. Aunt Petunia was making treacle tart! Well then! The day hadn't been a complete loss after all!

It could be said that Harry, despite his upbringing, despite the limitations the Dursleys tended to place on him left, right and center, somehow managed to become a connoisseur of all things Treacle Tart. Aunt Petunia, of course, knew that. She, being an accomplished housewife, also knew how to put that weakness to good use.

So, despite feeling utterly tired, Harry found himself tending to Aunt Petunia's garden with enthusiasm for the simple promise of a slice of her imfamous prize-winning Treacle Tart. By the time he was done, his stomach was growling up a storm. To be honest, his anxiety over the Wizengamot session had suppressed most of his hunger, but now the Treacle Tart had worked up his appetite something fierce and he distinctly made it a point to prepare something to eat for the next session. Probably something to drink as well, given that he had been parched as well when he had returned home.

Yeah, having some Treacle Tart with tea or homemade lemonade would definitely help him focus better. He'd probably prepare himself some sandwiches as well. He could almost hear that Hermione voice in the back of his head berating his dietary choices. Maybe make himself a lunchbox? He still remembered how to make those. He used to help Aunt Petunia make them for Dudley. Sometimes he even got to make himself some as well. 

It was something to do. Some progress of a sort, Harry felt. Adding something relatable to something completely and utterly unknown. He ate his Treacle Tart slowly, savoring each bite, his shoulders feeling slightly less burdened and his mind slightly lighter, despite today's ordeal.

* * *

What games was Dumbledore playing?

That was the question that plagued Voldemort's mind. It was not even remotely possible for the Potter child to have come up with this on his own. This was a ploy of Dumbledore's, he was certain. The man was not even in Britain right now, that much Voldemort knew. The Headmaster was running damage control in Brussels, though from what his contacts were relaying back to him, said damage control had very limited success. 

It was...disconcerting. Lord Voldemort had to confess that at least to himself. True, he spent over a decade as a bodiless wraith and maintaining some sort of survival had been difficult enough, without adding effort into keeping up with the most relevant news. What had forced the muggle-borns into rioting? Why had it come to this?

But, most importantly, would this spread to Wizarding Britain?

The gentle, quiet crackling of the fireplace was the only answer to his question. His eyes darted to it, following the dancing shadows playing to the silent tunes of the playful flames. It was in the middle of summer, in the blistering heat. Yet magic had always been this wonderful thing that leads to all kinds of excesses. Like this crackling fireplace of his. 

Everything had a source, from the fire in his fireplace, through the magic that sprouted from his very core, borne of the everlasting leylines that darted all across the Earth, to whatever had incited the muggle-borns into such open displays of disobedience. 

It was...distasteful, to say the least. It had always been about Power, that much Lord Voldemort was certain. The power to sway the masses, the power to cheat death... the power to make the choices no one else could. Order must be maintained. Power must be under control of those who knew it well enough. Who had the culture, the very blood, the right, the privilege to call it their own!

Muggleborns. Mudbloods. Thieves. Disrespectful brats intent on destroying everything that made Wizarding Culture what it was. The Olde Ways. 

Who would benefit from this disorder? Who had secretly risen in the shadow of his prolonged exile to insult him in such a way and to his very face? He'd deal with this, if not for the sake of his title as Dark Lord, then for the sake of Wizarding Britain and what it stood for. What it still stands for.

Voldemort looked down at his hands. They were pale, but not the pale of when he had first been resurrected at the graveyard a year or so ago. It was an illusion, of course. A memory of something that used to be. Something more than a simple glamour but less than an actual, complete transformation. 

It is difficult for him to form an opinion on his body at this very moment. Perhaps he felt grateful to have a mass of his own, to be corporeal, to not be denied the sensory input that he had spent a decade and then some without. Gratitude is an alien emotion to him. But so had been grief and the sense of loss the boy had all but assaulted him with. 

The boy, Potter, had always been so capable of turning everything on its head without much effort. Even in his current solitude (Nagini was sleeping in his bedroom thus she hardly counted as company at this very moment), Voldemort did not feel comfortable enough to let go of the calm, emotionless mask that was his expression. 

Control had always been an essential part of him and now the boy had taken that for him. Now, it was still difficult to find the inner equilibrium he had been accustomed to for such a long time. It was for this reason that he had procured himself living space of his own – a rather spacious apartment in a more influential part of London. A place that had been retrofitted into something suitable for a young noble wizard bachelor to inhabit. 

This was a public image that he had constructed himself on Lucius' insistence. Or, rather, a thought his dear wife, Narcissa, had been toying with, that had come to light under his persuasion. A persona that would allow him a greater stretch of his influence over Magical Britain. It had been in the works for months now. Not even Bella had known of this as the Malfoys had been sworn to secrecy.

And yet the boy had been there, on that exact same day, doing the exact same thing. 

Perhaps it had not been Dumbledore's meddling, Voldemort mused. Perhaps there was more to the boy than what he had come to know of him so far. As aggravating as he was capable of being, the Dark Lord had always considered the boy to be, more or less, the Headmaster's pawn first and foremost. 

Yet, on that day, he had seen not a pawn, not a boy, but a young man with a purpose to his stride and steel in his spine. He had been calm. Well, rigid, really, but for the boy, for Potter, to keep his nerve like this had been almost... admirable. The impulsive, rash, quick to anger teenager was growing, making steps of his own.

But if that had been Potter's decision, perhaps... yes. Perhaps there was more to the prophecy than he had first thought of.

The Dark Lord snorted. There were only so many ways to interpret a few lines of what was still an incomplete prophecy, as far as he was concerned. 

Plans slowly began to take shape and swirl within his mind. Whatever this was, whether Dumbledore's next ploy or Harry Potter's first attempts at independence, the Dark Lord would make sure it would work out in his favour in the end.


End file.
